The Story of Thresh
by silverbowandarrows
Summary: When Thresh, a very tall, extremely strong boy from District 11 is reaped into the Games along with 12-year-old Rue, they have no idea how world-changing these games will be. But how did Thresh get through his time in the Capitol and survive during the Games? What happened to his parents? And how did Cato bring him down in the end?
1. Chapter 1: Prelude

**AN:** It occurs to me that people have possibly written this before; however, I think I might actually be able to do this justice, and I've wanted to write this story for _ages_, so here you go. I hope you enjoy it. (Also, I am writing this mostly based on the books, though I may borrow elements of the movie that agree with the books.)  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hunger Games or any part of its franchise, books, movie, or otherwise.

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Chapter 1

The rays of dawn coming through the uncurtained windows - that was what always woke me up. Well, we had curtains, but they were so ratty and full of holes that most of the time we just didn't bother. Nobody in the house liked to look at them. Or remember a time, five or ten years ago, when the curtains were okay, and the family was as okay as I'd ever known it.

Things change.

I pushed myself off the hard palette on the floor, careful not to disturb my sister, Pomona, or my old grandmother, who took the corner because she said it was coziest for her. Pomona and I both knew that she just hated having space behind her; she was always watching her back. After what had happened to my father, I guess we couldn't blame her for that. So she got the corner, and usually did end up being the coziest, since Pomona always cuddled into her, and my grandmother always got the nicest blanket, along with the one threadbare pillow we had left. It was rare that I slept with a blanket at all, save in winter, and when I did it was a rough, grey one almost as threadbare as our curtains.

I touched the simple white t-shirt I wore and frowned. It was clinging to me all over with sweat. Why would I sweat? And then I remembered: tomorrow was Reaping Day. You'd think I'd've gotten used to it, since this was my 7th year of eligibility, but it was just the opposite. Since I'd turned 12, every year the Reaping brought more and more dread. But usually my hatred of the Capitol made me strong, kept me balanced. Why was this year different?

"Thresh," a voice called softly. Pomona sat up on the palette, rubbed the back of her left shoulder. She was tall, almost 6 foot, with the same dark brown skin and hair as me, and golden-brown eyes, like almost everyone in our district. Years ago some girls had taught her about dreadlocks, and ever since then she wore her hair in them, hardly even bothering to cut it. I just took out my father's old razors every month or so and shaved my entire head. She looked like me, in facial features as well as in musculature: We were both very strong - not always a common trait in District 11, but it served us well.

"Good morning," I said. I pulled the t-shirt off and threw it into the wicker basket my grandmother had made for our hamper. I went to the small, broken chest of drawers we owned and opened the one in the middle, where I kept my clothing.

Pomona eyed the glisten on my chest from the sweat. "You were sweating."

"Yeah, well. It's hot outside." It was the beginning of the hottest months of summer, and temperatures had ratcheted up to the 90s.

Pomona just shook her head slightly, and I knew she wasn't convinced. I didn't even sweat on the days that were 120 degrees and everyone was told to stay indoors.

I pulled on one of my work shirts, then turned around and pulled off my shorts, put on undergarments and work pants. Modesty wasn't something we bothered about much. We only had two rooms, and one of them was the bathroom, which had barely enough room to stand up in between the toilet and sink, at least for me. Baths we took in a huge bucket with water warmed from the fire. The houses everyone lived in were one room only, and that was the only kind of house I'd ever seen. Pomona, though, told stories about the richer people in the district, how sometimes their houses had two or even three _stories_, with multiple rooms on each story. I was never sure whether to believe her.

Pomona sprang to her feet and opened her drawer just as I finished buttoning my pants, her eyes trailing up to the battered wind-up clock hanging from the wall. "4:57! Yikes, we're going to be LATE!" She pawed frantically through her drawers, coming up with her own work shirt and pants, which were identical to mine.

"Work isn't till 6, remember?"

"5:30 if you want to eat. Duh." I rolled my eyes. Of course I knew that.

Grandma was used to waking up in an empty house, and usually didn't wake up till the sun was bright, so Pomona stooped down and kissed her softly on the cheek as I grabbed the massive sunhats we wore in the fields. I handed Pomona hers, put mine on, and we both stepped into our sandals and headed out the front door for the half hour walk to work.

Walking at our fastest pace, we made it just in time to each grab a small bowl of tasteless, going-cold gruel from one of the farm owner's children at a fold-up table they owned. I stared at the childish hands that passed me my food, then went with Pomona to sit on a patch of grass and eat. After a few more had been served, there were no more bowls. Workers were streaming into the grassy field now, but there was nothing left to eat, and they didn't ask. Instead, they gathered in groups and talked. As usual, I maintained my silence. Pomona, too, sat silently, staring out over the endless fields, although I knew she'd rather be talking to some of her friends. But she always insisted that the morning was for family.

Then work: Today we were planting fields and fields of cotton, and when we were done that, we were to go around to each new seed with watering buckets, going back and forth, back and forth to the only water source close enough, an old, deep well. You learned, when you'd been here awhile, to only sprinkle a small amount of water on each seed, because if you slopped out half the bowl, you'd only have to do more walking to get more water. You learned what the bare minimum was, and you did only that.

Pomona, at 19, got paid full adult wages for her work. Since I was 18 and not through my Reapings yet, my wage was substantially smaller, though even Pomona didn't make much. But I felt luckier than I had when I was younger, because nobody under 16 ever got paid for field work. The farm owners always told us it was illegal for under-16s to work fields, and if they got caught with job money the owners could be shot. It took me awhile to figure out that this was a lie. They just didn't want to pay anyone they didn't have to, and they knew that we couldn't refuse to work, because if we wanted jobs there as adults we had to start young. I'd started at age 10, because I was already tall and strong for my age. Pomona was 13. Some kids, whose parents had more money, could afford to wait longer to get jobs. But there weren't many of those, and they never lived near us.

I was careful with the planting, the watering. I paid careful attention in classes when it came to fields and the crops planted in them, because I'd always known I would be a field worker. My father and mother had both worked in fields, and so had my grandmother, back before she got too hunched and weak to handle the work. We could be asked to sow, water, feed, reap, or harvest any kind of field-grown plant, and we needed to know all the stages plantation went through, and what each seed and plant looked like when it was ideal and ready to be planted, picked, or otherwise harvested. Even during planting, we were expected to use all the seeds we knew would grow, and only throw away seeds we could tell were completely warped. The farm owners went around and checked, and if you did it wrong you could be in for hours in the chains, inside a small windowless hut - or worse, with a whipping from the head owner himself, one of the only people I knew who was stronger than me.

I had worked in fields of cotton, wheat, corn, hay; I'd even done some rounds in tobacco fields. District 9 grew grains exclusively, but they grew theirs for the Capitol; we grew it for the districts, and so we needed to know as much about grains as them. I often thought it was unfair, that we had to do all sorts of other crops, and then, added to that, all the grains that another district did. But when I considered not having food, I accepted it. Angrily.

Anger was a constant undercurrent running through me – I felt like it always had been. I hated being pushed around like a slave, I hated all the farm owners, and I especially hated the pampered Peacekeepers, with their crisp white uniforms and their stockades and whipping posts and guns. And the Capitol… well, I could never talk about them, unless I was completely alone. Pomona didn't like the Capitol either, but she was always terrified of what would happen if I was overheard. "They'll hang you!" she'd say each time I made a comment, clinging to my arm desperately, with her short fingernails digging into my flesh. So I finally learned to stop. The last thing we needed was to lose another family member.

The day was 14 hours, with just a short 15 minute break for lunch. We could have up to 5 stand-up breaks to drink water or use the bathroom, which could take no more than two minutes for water or three for the bathroom (we were timed). Lunch and breakfast came out of our salaries, but it was better than eating nothing. It was always meager, even with Pomona and I always paying for extra. We knew we needed it to keep the muscles we'd worked so hard for. So while everyone else was eating two pieces of bread with jam, Pomona and I had groosling sandwiches that even had a very thin layer of white fatty spread on the inside. Neither of us knew what it was called. She talked to her group of friends, while I sat alone. Then we both drank as much water as we could hold and got back to work.

At the end of the day, it was dark out and we were always exhausted, but there was the walk home to come. We trudged the half hour, casually chatting about our day. Well, the chat was mostly one-way, because Pomona could talk forever, but I'd learned it was usually better to keep my mouth shut. It was that or risk Pomona talking frantically about hanging.

We'd always come home to a fairly nice supper. Tesserae bread, as many pieces as we could eat while considering how long the rations had to last, with small pats of butter Grandma paid for with her seamstress work, and if we had any stray animal left we'd eat that too. If they came into the fields, grooslings or other small animals, it would be a fight to see who could get there first with something sharp. I kept my folded knife in my back pocket, and Pomona was fast, so she'd grab a groosling and when I got there I'd slit its throat, which gave us undeniable ownership. Tonight we actually had a wing left, so we split it between three of us and talked at the small table that come with the house. Like everything else we owned, it was worn and old, but it was sturdy, and Grandma smoothed and polished the top as best she could.

And after workdays like that… well, who had the energy to stay up late? I always got on the palette first, once we were sure there was no stupid mandatory Capitol television to watch. The reminder about the Reaping had played a week ago, and yesterday, so we were expected to remember that we needed to be there. Well… that _I_ needed to be there. Pomona was already safe. But I still had to go to one, final Reaping before I could know I was free from the clutches of the Capitol.

Sweat was already drenching another white t-shirt when I finally fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Reaping Day

**AN:** Here's where the good stuff begins.  
**Trivia Fact:** "Pomona" is the name of the Roman goddess of fruit trees, gardens, and orchards. There is no equivalent Greek goddess. Pomona is also the first name of Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
**Disclaimer:** It's pretty obvious that I hold no claim to any part of the Hunger Games copyright.

* * *

Chapter 2: Reaping Day

I bolted upward, my sleeping shirt and shorts both drenched. I sat there, dazed, for a moment, trying to process my dream. The dream…

_My father was running, running through the fields, in the black of night. He couldn't see where he was going, but he felt his way through the crops, and he never slowed down. But they found him. They found him, and they pulled a black bag over his head, and all of a sudden I was standing in front of him and he was at the Gallows, being asked for his final words. "No, Dad, NO!" I cried, my tears streaming down my face. But no matter how I clawed at the darkness I couldn't get through it to reach him. He looked up to the sky and said, ringingly, proudly, "God will take care of me." I screamed to him as they put his head through the noose, then let the floor drop… and he was…_

I pulled my shirt off and tried to wipe my sweating face with it, but it was too soaked. I looked down, noticing I'd left a stain on the palette too. Great. Grandma would scold.

I got up and suddenly noticed how dark the room was, how only points of light were coming from certain spots in the windows. The curtains. Someone must have pulled them over before bed last night. And – then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Of course. Reaping Day.

Every year Grandma did this to try and make us sleep longer, and every year I still bolted up out of bed on perfect grain shift time. Pomona, on the other hand, usually managed to get a little extra sleep. I always wondered if she ever had the same dreams I do, about our father. After all, she's a year older than me; she would remember his death just as well as I do.

_I have to try and shrug this off. I have to be strong. It's Reaping Day._

I let my face settle into its usual no-nonsense lines, then walked across the room towards the tub, which was pressed up against a wall near the almost-empty refrigerator. I pulled the tub down and set it near the fireplace, situated between the TV and the tiny counter. The fireplace itself was large, built to hold a spit that a person could cook a whole animal with. Grandma always used it to cook any animals we brought home from the fields. But on Reaping Day it had a different purpose.

I opened the cupboard below the counter and pulled out a stack of buckets, five medium sized ones. I turned on the tap gently, so the stream would ease into the metal buckets rather than downpour and wake up my sister and grandmother. Slowly, slowly, I filled each bucket, then hung each by its handle on the spit over the coals. Grandma had made sure we actually had coals for the day, because they heat faster, and the quicker we could all get clean on Reaping Day the better.

Soon I had the fire going, the coals flickering and producing quite a massive amount of heat. I used a pair of sturdy oven mitts to pull the buckets off the spit once the water felt warm, but not too hot. I poured water in the metal tub, then refilled the buckets and put them on the spit. It was a continual process: fill bucket, put on spit, take bucket off spit, pour bucket in tub, fill bucket. And as I continued, the sun slowly crept up over the horizon, until I could see through the curtain holes that day had fully dawned. _It must be at least 6 by now_, I thought.

I heard someone stirring as I poured the last few buckets in the tub, which by now was about half full. I tested the water: perfect temperature. I looked over at the palette just as Pomona turned over to look at me, rubbing her eyes of sleep sand. "Bath?" she said, looking at me and the tub.

"Yes," I said. "It's good and warm now."

"Good," Pomona said. She took a few more minutes to just lie there, not even noticing the sweat stain next to her, as I pulled hard soap from the cupboard, then pulled off my shorts and got in the tub. I scrubbed myself head to toe, my face, three weeks' growth of hair, and all, and used one of the buckets to make sure I got all the soap off, since I towered over the tub. I ran a hand over my hair, attempting to squeeze it of water, but there wasn't enough hair to wring out. Oh well. Ten minutes in the sun would fix it.

I got out, pulled a towel and my Reaping outfit from my drawer as Pomona went to the tub and stripped quickly before getting in. I dried off, then pulled on my only "special" outfit: a blue shirt that was once my father's; a pair of plain black slacks that my grandmother had sewn; one pair of white socks with no holes or tears. My shoes were by the front door; I walked to them and saw that someone had polished them already. Grandma. I couldn't repress a small smile.

Pomona, finished her bath, walked over to get her own towel and outfit. I went back to the tub and tested the water – it had cooled off a bit. I filled all the buckets again and hung them over the coals, blowing on the coals to increase their heat. It was incredibly, uncomfortably warm in the house by now, so I finally went over to the window, opened the curtains, and let the sunlight stream in while I opened the window to let some air circulate.

Grandma stirred, then, snuffling and opening her eyes. "Ah, Thresh! You've got the bath all ready for me!" She smiled her yellow, crooked smile, and I smiled back. She knew we'd already been in, especially as Pomona was standing there in a plainly-sewn checkered dress, but she was the cheerful type, the kind who liked to joke around. So unlike me.

Pomona put on an apron and busied herself with breakfast, and I sat down at the table, staring out the window, while Grandma carefully pulled herself up and then got into the tub. Her old, wrinkled body was so warped from work that she looked like someone had pushed her head right down into her collarbones, then pulled her shoulders so far up they made their own new mountain. I turned to her. "Do you need any help, Grandma?"

"Maybe with my hair," she said, smiling again. So I went to her and helped pour water over her head of tight curls, then tried to work in some soap lather as she delicately washed her body. I didn't seem to make much headway with washing her hair, but she was happy enough as I gently poured water over her head, keeping one arm above her forehead so the water didn't drip in her face. I poured some water over her upper body, then scooped up a full bucket and waited for her to wash her face. Then I went to the dresser and got her towel, bringing it to her as she laboriously stood up.

"Thank you, Thresh, darling," she said, then stepped from the tub and carefully dried herself off. I sat back at the table and stared out the window into a clump of trees.

Breakfast was quiet. We munched on some special grain Grandma had picked up, which Pomona had crafted into an actually hot meal, and it was far tastier than anything the farm had ever given us. Once we were done, I moved to do the dishes in the kitchen sink, and Pomona went with Grandma to help her dress.

"_Thresh!_" Pomona said, and I could hear the groan in her voice. I turned and she was staring at my stained sleeping spot. If I'd been the blushing kind, I would have done it then.

Grandma quickly looked over. "Oh, that's all right," she said. "I know just the thing to take that out. I'll clean it when we get back and it'll be good as new."

"Grandma…" Pomona said, as if to protest, but Grandma held up a hand.

"I know how much you hate cleaning, Pomona. I can handle it."

Pomona glared at me for a second, then her eyes and face softened. She looked down at my blue shirt, and I looked down, too. Despite myself, I swallowed hard.

* * *

Since District 11 was so large, and we were far away from the Justice Building, buses were always sent to pick us up at 9AM sharp. Our Reaping didn't start till 1:15 in the afternoon, but it took several hours for us to get there.

The eligible youth from our "shack set," as we called it, stood in lines, and a Peacekeeper read out from a list of names.

"Jolt Andrews!" One of my school friends. "Ariadne Taylor! Plou Sharp! Orch Madrid! Thresh Rutledge!"

I never knew why they bothered with The List – everyone here always got picked. I knew it was because we all had families to support, and we'd all taken out tesserae because of it. Pomona had taken tesserae when she was 12, and even though, every year after, I took all our tesserae and wouldn't let her take any, her name was always called along with mine. I noticed a pattern at District 11 reapings every year – there was never a single person there who didn't look like they came from a shack set. Somehow, some way, District 11's wealthier children never seemed to make it to The List. It was yet another thing that angered me greatly.

I boarded the bus, and Pomona and Grandma got on straight behind me. Pomona took a seat with my grandmother, who hated sitting by strangers, and I… well, I mostly filled out a seat by myself. Still, some smaller child could have sat with me – but apparently wouldn't because I looked so forbidding. Pomona had told me the kids always took one look at me and scurried away, terrified. At this point each year my anger always began to overcome me, and I'd take on what Pomona called my "fierce" look… I guess it was pretty intimidating. I'd never seen the look on my own face.

Once the bus was full and the driver started the engine, Pomona looked across the seat from me, and reached out toward me with her hand. Like a mother helping a child. I took her hand, and her warm, steady grasp made me feel a little better.

* * *

The hotness of the day, the lack of a breeze, was incredibly stifling as we got off the bus a few streets over from the Justice Building. The three of us walked in a small row holding hands, imitated by most of the people after us. All along the streets, families with Reaping-age children were walking together in lines, giving each other what strength they could before the ceremony.

Pomona kissed me on the cheek, then took my grandmother to a location further off as I stepped in line, then was signed in by a Capitol official. I was scowling, but it pleased me just a little to see how far he had to tilt back to see my face. I walked through the crowd, and people parted for me. I was easily one of the tallest here, and always the bulky one – I took up a lot of room.

At the front was Jolt, with some other 18 year olds from my old school. "Hey," Jolt said. I nodded at him, then turned away. The anger, usually so repressed, was starting to boil over like it did every year.

After about 10 more minutes the Capitol escort we'd had for the last four years, Bellona Tripp, came onto the stage, followed by the mayor and the two mentors, Chaff and Seeder. As always, I stared at Chaff's wrist stump when he passed by, wondering how he'd lost his hand. I looked at Bellona Tripp with derision: she was wearing a completely ridiculous getup, as usual. Her hair was an unnatural, vivid shade of yellow, crimped so it expanded all around her head, and her lips and eyes were painted in green. She had donned a bright orange puffy dress and bright yellow heels, the colors brought out even further by her medium brown skin. She could have been from District 11, if she hadn't had neon yellow hair, if her eyes weren't an obvious fakery in their bright bright blue … if she wasn't so disgustingly _Capitol_.

I looked away.

The mayor stood up, then, and began to read the Reaping speech. About the terrible wars of the past, the making of Panem, and the subsequent destruction of Panem by the district rebels. Then, finally, a peaceful Panem, kept peaceful, said the speech, by these Games. The Hunger Games, in which 24 children between 12 and 18 were sent to an outdoor arena to fight to the death, with the last child left alive crowned as victor, and then celebrated like a hero. Thinking about it all again made me sick. The pot of anger inside me began to bubble and spit.

Bellona got up, then, clearly in no mood to dawdle. "As always, our first pick today will be to see which young woman will represent District 11 in the 74th Annual Hunger Games!" Her tone was sickeningly bright, as if all of this was _okay_. She stepped forward, then dug her hand through the girls' bowl for a few moments before finally selecting a piece of paper. She had it clasped in the tips of her ridiculously long fingernails.

Bellona opened the paper, and you could hear the sound of it as everyone waited in a deliberate hush. "Rue Astor!"

I looked back around at all the girls, and saw… a 12 year old step out. One of the tiniest girls I'd ever seen – short and underfed looking, the way almost everyone was here. I clenched my hands into fists, breathing heavily, as she made her way to the stage. Her eyes were wide with terror as she stepped up, and didn't shrink even when she faced the crowd. Everyone remained completely silent.

"Do we have any volunteers?" said Bellona Tripp, as if to volunteer would simply be a delight. It angered me, though it didn't surprise me, to see that not one of the other District 11 girls was willing to take this child's place. _If I could, __**I**__ would have taken her place_, I thought, and the thought surprised even me. I'd never thought about a tribute that way before. Then again, no 12 year olds had been picked since I'd been eligible for the Reaping. My anger was spilling out all over my face, into my hands, everywhere.

"And now it's time to see which young man will proudly represent District 11!" Bellona said merrily, and I felt my fists clench even tighter. I wanted to hit her.

She walked to the male bin and spent even longer, if that was possible, going through it. A few people even coughed or cleared their throats while she wriggled her fingers around and around in the plastic bowl. Just as I was wishing she would just get it over with already, she pulled out a second slip, and the crowd was dead silent once more.

She cleared her throat, then said brightly and clearly, "Thresh Rutledge."

Me.

It took a few seconds for it to fully penetrate, and by that time everyone around me had pulled away, leaving me exposed near the stage stairs. The little girl onstage looked at me, and if possible her eyes went even wider. I realized I was still clenching my fists, and my face was contorted into a scowl. _Well, then_, I thought, _LET IT_.

I climbed the stage, facing the audience, the fists unclenching after a few seconds although the scowl didn't go away. I drew myself to my full height and looked over all of them, then directed my gaze down at Bellona Tripp, whose eyes widened just enough for me to notice. She turned back to her microphone immediately.

"Do we have any volunteers?" she asked the crowd, but no one so much as twitched a finger. Compared to the 12 year old, I was no one to be pitied. Besides, I'd always known that if I was ever chosen, there would be no volunteer for me.

"All right, then! Shake hands!" Bellona said, smiling in a forced way, and I held out my hand toward the little girl. Rue. Rue put her tiny hand in my large one, and I put my thumb on the back of her hand and gave it the gentlest squeeze I knew how as we shook. She smiled at me, just a little, as we pulled our hands back.

"Let's give a round of applause to this year's District 11 tributes, Rue Astor and Thresh Rutledge!" And a small smattering of clapping followed, but it didn't last long. I looked out over my district again, and saw a familiar expression in every face I could see clearly. The expression that said, _this is wrong_. But we had no power over the Games, and we all knew it.

Rue and I were going to the slaughter.


End file.
